Search the Dark - Charles Todd [21]
Rutledge paid it no heed. “His son died in the war?” It was no more than an attempt to keep the innkeeper talking, but something flared behind the veil.
“No, Simon Wyatt came through it with hardly a scratch. But somewhere along the way he lost his taste for politics.”
It was a warning not to ignore the message a second time. Rutledge changed the subject. “And once the Westminster connection was gone, Charlbury settled back into tranquility again?”
The innkeeper made a wry face. “Not so’s you’d notice,” he said reluctantly. He put down his beer and looked out at the garden. “People are queer, you know that? Simon Wyatt’s grandfather, now, the one on his mother’s side of the family, he lost his wife early on. Nothing seemed to count with him after that, he couldn’t settle to farming or anything else. Then one fine day he went off to see the world. Sent home boxes of whatever struck his fancy—dead birds and strange-looking statues and other knick-knacks he picked up along the way. He was set on making a museum, though who’d come to look at such oddities, I ask you?”
“Not every man’s taste,” Rutledge agreed. “In London? That might make a difference.”
“No, here in Charlbury,” the innkeeper said. In the back toward the kitchen a man’s voice called, “Mr. Denton?”
He answered over his shoulder. “Aye, I’m coming, man!”
“Shall I carry down the next keg, then?”
“Put it with the others, Sam. I’ll sort it out later.” He smiled ruefully at Rutledge. “Anything else, sir? The dray brought my beer this morning. If I don’t watch, Sam’ll be drunk as a lord on whatever he can find that’s open. Old fool! But help’s hard to find. If there’s no work on the farms, the younger ones are off for London or wherever they can find a job. If he wasn’t so good with the horses, I’d have been shut of him years ago.”
Rutledge drained his glass and thanked Denton, then made his way out into the sunlight again. Sitting on a bench outside the door was the man he’d seen earlier. He was pale, his face beaded with sweat.
“Are you all right?” Rutledge asked. “I saw what happened.”
“Bloody brat! His mother can’t do anything with him. Needs a man’s firm hand. Preferably applied to the seat of his pants!” He cleared his throat and said, “I’m all right. As right as I’ll ever be.”
Something in the timbre of his voice made Rutledge turn to look at him. “Canadian, by any chance?”
“I lived there for a time. Alberta. Damned beautiful part of the country! Ever been there?”
“Never had the chance,” Rutledge answered. “I met a number of Canadians in the war.”
The man held out his hand and Rutledge took it. “My name’s Shaw. You aren’t a Dorset man.”
“Rutledge. I’m from London.”
“I hate the bloody place. Too crowded, too dirty, too old. A man can’t breathe there.”
“No,” Rutledge said, knowing what Shaw meant. “Do you have family here?” It was the opening he’d waited for, to bring up the subject of the Mowbrays.
“I’m Denton’s nephew. He’s kept an eye on me since I left hospital. The doctors won’t let me go back to Alberta, and I’ve not made up my mind what to do with myself.” Shaw grimaced. He wasn’t used to telling strangers his life story. It was a bad habit to get into.… “Sorry! I’m not usually this garrulous. It’s the fault of that bloody child!”
“I don’t mind, if it helps. Anything is better than what they give out in hospital for the pain.”
“God, yes!” Shaw got to his feet and took a deep breath. “It never lasts long,” he said, although the tension around his eyes hadn’t gone away. “Thanks for not making a fuss.”
As Rutledge nodded, Shaw opened the door and went inside. As if afraid that staying would lead him into other confessions he didn’t want to make.
5
Rutledge turned toward his parked car and then changed his mind, walking back up the street instead. He knocked several times at the constable’s door, without an answer.
A woman busily sweeping her walk shaded her eyes and said, “If you’re needing Constable